


Forever Is Never Long Enough

by Briarwolf (Tru)



Category: Kyou Kara Maou!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-01
Updated: 2005-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-17 07:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8135258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tru/pseuds/Briarwolf
Summary: Discovering he's lost what he thought to be his brings Wolfram closer to Murata.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sora Ishida, as she's the person that brought this pairing to my attention to begin with.

There comes a time where even the most stubborn must bow to the inevitable; realize that sometimes even the willingness to wait forever isn't long enough. For him, it comes on a day not unlike most of the rest. All that makes it different is the way Yuuri's face looks when he comes around the corner, before the world-hopping Maou catches sight of Wolfram. It's in the laughter, and the casual, intimate way their fingers curl together. It's the way they move closer to each other that makes him freeze, and before he can escape, they see him.

Surprise widens three pairs of eyes before each changes; brown goes carefully blank, black nervous and faintly ashamed while green showcases a thick layer of rage over hurt. Yuuri opens his mouth, then closes it, cheeks turning faintly red. The boy tries again, but before he can speak Wolfram remembers. He remembers pride, and he refuses to show his hurt, so he clenches his fists and stalks down the hall toward them.

Conrad shifts as though to shelter Yuuri behind him, but something passes silently between the two and with a faint nod he keeps his place. In spite of this, the older man's stance is sharp as an unsheathed blade and the distrust paired with the betrayal slices Wolfram like an ice-cold knife.

“Wolfram, I should...” Yuuri babbles out, a hasty attempt at an apology come too late or an attempt to justify what never should have needed justification, Wolfram doesn't know, because he doesn't wait to listen.

Pushing past, his shoulder bumps against Yuuri's, knocking the boy back a step. Without looking sideways, he bites off a vicious, “Wimp.”

He can almost feel the boy's eyes on his back, sense the way that Yuuri starts to take a step after him. The gratitude he feels when Conrad says Yuuri's name, holding the boy back, comes mingled tightly with pained anger and, not for the first time, he feels like Conrad is both his savior and destroyer.

The corner looms in front of him. All he has to do is get around it and the stone will shield him from their eyes. He will be free to run until he doesn't have the breath to yell; free to flee somewhere he can drop the reins that check his temper and let his rage burn and consume him. He ignores the startled servants, the questions of guards wondering what the emergency is, and pounds down the hall toward the freedom he doesn't want from a fiance he never asked for.

*

The confession doesn't shock him. After all, centuries worth of lifetimes have taught him to recognize what's before his eyes. What does take him aback is the fact that Shibuya hadn't even told his fiance. He'd thought he knew Yuuri better than that; knew him as the type to go out of his way not to hurt others.

When he takes a step back from the situation, he understands. Wolfram is difficult even in the best of times, and finding out your fiance and your half-human brother have fallen in love certainly can't be classified as the best of times.

The boy is miserable, but Conrad stands behind him, a hand on Yuuri's shoulder for gentle comfort. Murata smiles at his friend, and offers his blessings, but doesn't linger. There's somewhere else he needs to be.

On his way to the shrine, he tells himself that this has nothing to do with ghosts that should have been laid to rest years ago. He's learned to recognize lies as well.

*

“Geika.” The voice is strained and hoarse, like the speaker had been screaming. It wouldn't surprise Murata if he had. He can see the flickering anger in Wolfram's eyes still; see the way the boy tries to fight it down and loses. “Now isn't a good time.”

“I know,” Murata answers simply. He doesn't leave, just leans against a nearby tree well away from the circle of destruction that surrounds the fire demon. He can taste ashes and despair, but he doesn't let his face show compassion.

“You know?” Wolfram laughs, a cold, mocking sound and he shakes his head, closing his eyes. “Does everyone know? Have they been laughing behind my back?”

“No,” Murata replies quietly, carefully. With his eyes closed, Wolfram is almost a perfect mirror for the ghost that has haunted him through countless lives. “There are things,” he continues in an even, emotionless tone, “that can only really be known by others who have lived them.”

Wolfram's eyes open, and it's like the boy is looking right through him. It's so similar it makes him ache, but just different enough to keep him from making an impulsive mistake. For a long time, the past is all he's had, but he thinks it may be time to start building new memories.

He walks toward Wolfram, holding out a small square of paper. The suspicion in Wolfram's eyes almost makes him smile, another difference to add to the steadily growing list. Slowly, Wolfram takes what he offers, and he turns away, tossing words casually over his shoulder.

“Keep it, or burn it, whichever you like. Sometimes it's better to have a small reminder of what you've lost. At least, for a little while.”

Without looking back, he leaves Wolfram alone again. Wolfram doesn't see him go, gaze fixed on the slick paper in his hand. Yuuri and Murata stare up at him from under the glossy shine of the photograph. They're grinning, wearing white and blue rather than the black he's used to from seeing them here. They look innocent, happy.

His fingers tighten, and with a thick, vicious sound he tears the photograph roughly in two.

*

Wolfram doesn't come back to the castle that night. Yuuri is wracked with guilt and worry, Conrad's usually unreadable expression is marred with concern for Yuuri, and Murata is calm. Over and over he assures his friend that Wolfram will be fine.

“Time heals all wounds,” he says, though he thinks whoever first said that particular bit of wisdom should have clarified how much time one is expected to wait.

He doesn't go out to search, nor does he return to the shrine. No matter how long he stares, the painting doesn't move; it doesn't smile the way he remembers, it doesn't whisper objections under the cover of darkness. But it makes him remember, and it makes him hurt, and he's almost grateful for the familiar pull when it comes.

The churning water spits him out, and the rough feel of concrete under his palms anchors him in this place where there's nothing to remind him of everything he's had to leave behind. At least, until Yuuri moves, pushing dripping hair away from his face. The boy looks even more miserable now, and Murata takes up his role to give his friend a reassuring smile.

“Don't worry,” he says and nudges Yuuri with an elbow as they rise, “This will give him time to calm down. Everything will be fine.”

Yuuri nods, but doesn't look as though he believes Murata's words. Murata is glad when they part ways, if pressed, he's not sure he believes himself.

*

They aren't gone long, just a few days of their own time, but when they return fine is the last word that could be used to describe the situation. There is a heavy, tense stillness to the air. Lines have been drawn, and hasty decisions have shattered any chance of establishing a fragile piece. Murata cannot shake the sense of impending disaster, and seeing the way knots of people fall silent when he and Yuuri pass only makes it grow stronger. They go to the council room to find the reasons for the air of danger in the halls.

“You what!?” Yuuri's astonished cry comes right on the heels of the announcement, and everyone in the council room shifts nervously and turns their eyes away. Everyone but Conrad.

“I accepted Wolfram's challenge to a duel.” Outwardly, Conrad looks calm, but there's a fierceness in his eyes that Murata hasn't seen since the night he tried to flee from his imprisonment.

“Why?” Yuuri demands, slapping his hands down on the table in front of him. He looks around at the few others there, but none of them return his gaze. “How could you have allowed things to go this far?”

“He wouldn't be satisfied any other way, Heika,” Conrad replies evenly. Yuuri flinches a little at the title, and he can't hide the hint of hurt in his eyes. Conrad sighs, softening slightly. “I'm sorry, Yuuri. What else could I have done?”

“You could have told him no,” Yuuri sinks down into a chair with a defeated sigh. “But, then, it's Wolfram. He wouldn't have just taken a refusal and been satisfied.”

Wolfram isn't present, of course, but the tension in the room makes it feel almost like he is. The silence stretches, and no one moves. Yuuri stares down at the grain of the table in front of him, and finally, he sighs.

“What can we do? Is there any way to stop this?” He looks around the room, but no one seems willing to answer his desperate question. Finally, Gunter purses his lips and Yuuri fixes on the motion. “Well?”

“If Sir von Bielefeld were to choose to stand down, the duel could be avoided, Heika,” Gunter shifts nervously under Yuuri's regard, and Murata understands the lavender-haired man's reluctance to speak. It is unlikely, at best, that Cheri's youngest son would willingly give up without a fight.

Yuuri sighs and slumps in his chair, elbows on the table, cheeks cradled in upraised hands. For a long moment, no one moves. It almost seems that none of them dare even to breathe. Then, Murata takes a step forward, drawing the focus of everyone in the room.

“Where is he?” At first, it seems that he will receive no answer, sidelong glances darted between the men gathered around Yuuri's chair.

“He's been given sanctuary at the Shrine, Geika,” it is Gwendal who replies, the barest hint of sadness visible behind an emotionless outward shell. Offering a nod, Murata turns and exits in stiff-backed determination.

*

Before he is even announced, Wolfram rises, back turned. The line of his spine is unyielding, a tortured protest to the painful shame he has endured as news of his broken engagement has spread through the castle.

“I will not stand down,” the voice is splinter-edge sharp; rough with the effects of sleepless nights and barely bitten back rage.

Murata waves off the maiden that guided him to the room, waiting for the door to close behind her near-silent footsteps before his gentle words make answer. “He cannot love you.”

“You think I don't know that?” Wolfram spins to face him then, face ravaged by grief. “That does not keep me from loving him.”

There is nothing that can be said to comfort such bone-deep truth. The sharp recollection of similar words once whispered into an unheeding sky makes Murata want to flinch. Instead, he steps further into the room, the tray balanced carefully across his palms held forth like an offering. Wolfram narrows suspicious eyes, but Murata only smiles, serene over the ache in his chest.

“You need to eat.” The tray is laid on the small, simple table, cloth drawn back to reveal a plain meal for two. “Starving yourself will not help you win this fight.”

“Nothing will help me win this fight,” Wolfram barks a short, unamused laugh, but he sits as Murata nods to a chair. “My death will only release me from my shame.”

“Death brings release to nothing,” Murata answers as he places food in front of Wolfram. After that cryptic statement, Wolfram looks at him curiously. Murata only shakes his head and they eat in strained, thoughtful silence.

*

The morning dawns with a clear blue sky and a deep chill. The men that face each other across the courtyard are so still that they don't even shiver as their breath draws plumes of steam in the air. A breathless hush has fallen over the spectators, an unforgiving blend of hope and despair keeping them helpless.

For a moment it seems as if the scene will remain unchanging for the remainder of the day, but then Gwendal steps forward. Before the prompt to begin has even fully cleared his lips, Conrad and Wolfram are in motion.

Murata hears a soft sound behind him, but it barely carries over the violence of the first clash of steel. He watches in forced silence as Wolfram is pushed and has to skip backward out of range of Conrad's blade. Murata's fingers grasp tightly at his own sleeves, arms pulling closer over his chest, as Conrad presses the assault, driving Wolfram back again. Already, he can see the faint glitter of sweat on Wolfram's temples where it catches the early light.

Wolfram turns, ducks and rolls to the side, coming to his feet almost right in front of Murata. The move was not enough to throw Conrad off balance, and the older man follows closely, blade-tip catching to drag a ragged tear across the front of Wolfram's jacket. Distracted by a need to back off and regain his footing, Wolfram doesn't notice the jagged-edged bit of paper that flutters free to land just outside the lines marking the space of their combat.

A step brings Murata close enough to pick it up, the thick, glossy paper immediately familiar to his fingers. He means to only cast the barest of glances down, to make sure that the photo of Yuuri that Wolfram has kept has not been damaged. When his gaze hits the picture, his eyes go wide and his breath becomes locked up somewhere in his throat.

Then, a sudden stricken sound from Cheri rips his attention away from the image that trembles in his hand. He looks up just in time to see Wolfram go down, stumbling on an uneven patch of ground. The blond looses his grip on his sword, and it spins away from his hand across the dirt. As Conrad moves in and raises his blade, Murata is gripped by a sudden memory of wide-open violet eyes that would never again see anything through the veil imposed by death.

“No!” The cry escapes his throat before he even has the chance to think, and he's sprinting into the combat ground with a speed born of desperation.

The blade flashes as it comes down; he can hear Cheri's scream and other shouts, but cannot make a sound himself through the tightness that paralyzes his lungs. He opens eyes that panic had forced shut in those final seconds, and finds that he is almost nose to nose with the mirror of himself that smiles up from the torn photograph that Wolfram had dropped.

“Geika!” The almost hysterical voice comes from beneath him, and he tries to turn his head to smile like his picture, but the pain from the deep gash across his shoulder and back has stolen all his strength. He cannot avoid his sudden spiraling plunge into darkness.

*

The pillow makes it hard for him to breathe, and seems to be what pulls him out of sleep. He tries to push himself upright, and flinches at the faint remnants of pain protest his motion. Just before he falls back forward into the pillow, an arm eases around his chest to carefully help him up.

There is almost no light in the room, and he squints at the figure standing beside his bed. Stretching out his hand, he tries to grope across the bedside table for his glasses, and they are handed to him by the still silent person. It seems to be night, and even with his glasses he can't make out much detail.

“A little light?” His voice is faintly hoarse and he coughs a little to try and clear his dry throat. When he lifts his head, a hand is holding a glass of water in front of him, and a pair of lamps have been lit. He takes the glass and sips, but doesn't look further up into the brown eyes that he knows are waiting for him.

“Geika, there is no way for me to apologize for wounding you,” Conrad speaks quietly, and Murata has to fight not to squeeze his eyes shut. This isn't who is supposed to be here. What happened after he blacked out?

“Conrad,” Yuuri's voice interrupts, and he lifts his gaze just in time to see the boy place his hand on Conrad's shoulder. The man nods and steps back, settling into one of the two chairs waiting next to the bed. How long had they sat there, waiting for him to wake?

“It's still the same day,” Yuuri answers the unspoken curiosity, as though Murata's questions are plain on his face. “Well,” the boy clarifies, glancing toward the dark windows, “for a little while, anyway. The healers didn't think you would wake before morning, but I wanted to be here just in case.”

Murata nods, leaning back gingerly against the headboard. Yuuri fusses at the pillows behind him until Murata is forced to wave the boy off. His head hurts, and he is still tired, but he will not rest until he knows what took place after his rash action. “What happened?”

“You dove on top of Wolfram,” Yuuri grinned wryly, and shook his head when he could see that Murata was about to protest. “Of course, you know that already. Everything sort of dissolved into chaos after that. Wolfram couldn't seem to decide if he was going to try and kill Conrad with his bare hands, or if he was going to cling to you as though he could save you through touch alone. Healers were called, and Wolfram...”

“And Wolfram?” Murata tries not to let his anxiety show. What he had done would not necessarily have ended the duel, once he had been taken away, they could have continued.

“He's asleep now,” Yuuri smiled, and gave Murata a long look. “You know I wouldn't have allowed anything else. And... I think everything will be alright now, won't it?”

After a moment of thought, Murata dipped his head in a nod. “Yes, I think it will.”

*

Conrad and Yuuri had left him to rest some more not long after that. Sun teasing in a warm line across his cheek pulls him out of sleep once more, and his eyes open to the dazzling golden glow of late morning light. When he moves, he discovers that he is still sore, but not as badly as when he'd last woke. It draws a softly annoyed groan out of him all the same, and suddenly there are hands bracing him. The touch is rougher than Yuuri's has been, but still hesitant as though afraid he will break.

“Wolfram, thank you,” once sitting up, Murata slides his glasses on and looks at the hovering fire demon. The sight makes him frown slightly. “Don't. Just sit down. No, not there.”

Wolfram looks up in surprise, half bent to settle in one of the chairs Yuuri and Conrad had sat in the night before. He blinks when Murata pats the bed, but after receiving a stern stare, he sits gingerly on the very edge of the bed. Murata lets the silence hang as Wolfram keeps his eyes fixed on his hands, clenched in his lap.

“Geika, you shouldn't have jumped into the duel. You could have been killed,” finally unable to stand the quiet, Wolfram breaks it, voice dull.

“It wouldn't be the first time,” Murata answers, catching the small flinch of Wolfram's shoulders. “However, it might have been the first time I'd died trying to protect a complete fool.”

Wolfram's head snaps up, his mouth opening to make an outraged protest, but Murata is ready for it. He covers Wolfram's mouth with a hand, and leans in close, smiling gently.

“That's more like you,” he murmurs as he slides his hand aside and replaces it with delicately questioning lips. After a breathless moment, Wolfram's mouth answers without saying a word.

Waiting forever is never long enough to get back what you think you've lost when, in truth, it's something you haven't yet found.


End file.
